


The One Thing I Can Count On

by CelesteFitzgerald



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Angst, Character Study, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-10 20:37:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20534240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelesteFitzgerald/pseuds/CelesteFitzgerald
Summary: The story of John Lennon, told through his memories of the people who touched his life.





	The One Thing I Can Count On

Mimi’s hands were strong. The first time she carried John to his new home with her, she kept her hands wrapped firmly around his back, staying strong enough for the both of them. It was her tough fingers that wiped away his confused tears on that life-changing day, reminding him that it was okay, that he could be brave—and she would be brave, too. Through all John’s heavy loads of laundry, his careless injuries, and—more often than not—his _troublesome_ behavior, her hands were strong.

Julia’s hands were red. Or, at least, John assumed they must have been, considering how quickly he had yanked the guitar from her delicate hands. She had bought it for him—for _him_—and it didn’t matter how often Mimi told him that he was wasting his time on this “nonsense,” at least he had someone who understood. He spent as much time with Julia as he could, telling her joke after joke until they were both entirely flushed and exhausted from the laughter. Sometimes he wondered if she had that same big smile on her face the day that car hit her. But he would never know for sure, because Julia’s hands were red.

Brian’s hands were firm when John shook his hand for the first time at The Cavern Club. Never before had someone so successful and put-together shown so much faith in his abilities. Each time the group met with Brian, John grew more impressed, and he had no reservations when Brian offered to be their manager. Brian would take good care of them, would take good care of _him_. And much later, on that night in Spain when they got a little too drunk, when Brian grasped his shoulder and told him, “you’re gonna go far,” Brian’s hands were firm.

Ringo’s hands were steady, steadier than Pete’s. To be honest, they should have asked Ringo to be their drummer years ago. But he was their little drummer boy _now_, and John loved it. Ringo’s jokes made him laugh the hardest he had laughed since…a long time ago, and his positive, peacemaking attitude kept the group together through some rough squabbles. And John would be forever grateful that Ringo stayed by his side all night whenever they went out drinking together, his steady hands keeping John from collapsing on the ground in a dizzy heap.

Cynthia’s hands were safe. Her hands were as pretty as the rest of her, and John liked the way it felt when he clutched her hand in his own. When they walked along the streets in their sunglasses, holding hands, John wasn’t bothered by all the cameras, because he had Cynthia. And after yet another night when, perhaps, they weren’t as safe as they should have been, when Cynthia got pregnant, John asked for her lovely little hand in marriage. It was the right thing to do—the safe choice.

Julian’s hands were tiny the first time John held him. John held out a finger, and his newborn son grabbed it, wrapping his little fingers around his father’s. The way Julian’s eyes were squeezed shut made it look as though he was exerting all his strength, but John could barely feel it, his hands were so tiny—so tiny that John could almost forget they were even there.

George’s hands were _big_—oh _god_ they were big—John didn’t even know it was possible—_what_? It was probably just the acid, but suddenly John found George’s hands _hysterical_. He grabbed George’s hand and moved it back and forth in front of his eyes—“George, do you _see_ this?”—then slapped it against his own face—“Your hand is bigger than my head, it’s gonna eat me”—then leaned against it until it couldn’t support his weight, and he fell against George, both of them laughing even harder. But his hands were just so _big_.

Yoko’s hands were new. They were smaller than Cynthia’s, but certainly not weaker. The two of them wouldn’t have been able to survive together if she had been weak—the rude comments and stares would have split them apart ages ago. But John didn’t care what the rest of the world thought—they loved each other, and that was all that mattered. She continuously opened his mind to new possibilities, new art, new love. And he couldn’t get enough of it.

But Paul’s hands were constant. John could hardly remember life without Paul, which was silly—he had lived sixteen whole years before meeting Paul—but somehow it felt like his life hadn’t truly started until those days they had spent locked in someone’s bedroom, eye to eye, writing songs. Paul was his other half, his mirror image, holding his guitar in that funny, upside-down way of his. John could sit for hours, just watching Paul strum his guitar as he showed off his new melody, and John always smiled and told him it was great, because it always was.

Then the fame hit, and the tiny bedroom turned into a massive stadium. With thousands of screaming fans drowning out the sound from their amps, everything had changed. But as John looked into Paul’s eyes on the other side of the mic, making him smile for the fifth time that song, everything still felt the same.

It was John and Paul, Paul and John—their names always went hand in hand. Countless women had come and gone, but Paul never left him. After every painful break-up, John could count on Paul to be there with open arms, running his fingers through his hair and telling him that everything would be alright.

Paul was always there. He’d always be there, John repeated to himself each time they fought. But the more often they fought, the more the words started to lose their meaning. So, he turned to something else for comfort. While Paul screamed at him about who-knows-what, shoving John’s shoulders away, John focused on the solid pressure of Paul’s hands against his chest. And on other days, when the roles were reversed, he focused on the feeling of Paul’s fists clutching at his shirt, begging him not to leave. See? Paul was still there. Maybe it wasn’t quite the same anymore, but he was still his Paul.

Then everything fell apart. The bonds that held the band together crumbled. But John would be alright. After all, Paul’s hands were constant.

Until, suddenly, they weren’t.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Touch
> 
> Title comes from a line in the song "All That Matters" from the RWBY Volume 5 Soundtrack.


End file.
